#ink fill

[2057]

[isbergillustration]

The Holiest Love

[into-fiction]

gelphie soulmates

what if i....did a soulmate au....where anything you draw on your skin shows up on your soulmates....but glinda's parents forbid her from drawing bc it ruins her image and she's anxious and scared and has convinced herself her soulmate would hate her and so she never does....meanwhile elphie believes believes believes that she's broken because her skin is not only green, it is blank

(eta: short snippet posted here)

[sweeterthanficstion]

— coast2coast (pt. one) || l.s.k

pairing: life guard!leon kennedy x surfer!fem!reader

tags: surfing au! set in malibu, 1998, i wrote this with re2 leon in mind but re4 leon works too, featuring claire (and chris in later parts!), UNEDITED!! so far only fluff (unheard of...) i'll add as i go!

oh actually, my shitty attempt at knowing anything about surfing despite learning everything through youtube, google and malibu rising by taylor jenkins reid (what started this whole thing). i am NAWT a pro --- so if any of you guys actually know a thing or two abt surfing hit me up!!! i'd love to learn more!

summary: Summer is a fickle thing, sticky-sweet and fleeting, gone before you're ready. You've learnt to love it while it lasts. For you, every summer has been the same—surf, sand, salt-water tides and the hot Malibu breeze. But this summer brings a new sort of challenge, a spotlight your not so sure you're ready for, as well as a boy with golden hair, eyes as blue as the waves, and a way of making your heart rattle between your ribs like it’s desperate to break free.

word count: 2.6k

a/n: AHH HI! i'm so excited to post this one!! it's currently summer here in australia and i've been down at the beach nearly every weekend, so it was only inevitable that my fixation on surfer!leon came back full force. i have this big story all set up in my head, but i was too excited to wait to finish writing it so i'm posting it in parts!! ++ oh also i had no idea corral beach was an actual place in malibu so my version is fictionalised. just. take everything in this fic with a grain of salt i have no idea what im doing lol

i also thought it'd be really fun idea since i'm so busy nowadays, that if you guys are interested at all, you can send in little ideas for blurbs for surfer!leon, and i'd love to write them! i'll figure out ways to fit them into the story, just as little extras, but obviously no promises on writing all of them!! i'll likely just pick the ones i think fit best into the plot. i just think that'd be AWESOME!! <3

playlist⭑masterlist⭑AO3 ⭑ series masterlist⭑next part (coming soon)

California is exactly how you’d left it. Exactly how you remember it. Nothing has changed between the sand beneath your toes and the palm trees lining the scorching hot tar roads, their shadows stretching long and thin like sleepy cats in the afternoon sun. The salt-kissed air wraps around you, sticky and warm, a gentle reminder that time moves slower here. Or maybe it doesn’t move at all. 

That’s the thing about California. A time capsule—sun, sand and sky.

June, July, August, Summer melts in your mouth like a sticky popsicle, one into the next, so quick you forget what it tastes like before it’s even passed.

No matter where you are in the world, what waves you're chasing, whether it be in Oceania, the Pacific, the Atlantic, summer melts, fickle and eager.

You’ve learnt to love it while it lasts.

“Another fish and chips!” One of the waitress staff calls from the front—Bunny’s Seafood Diner has been around for as long as you can remember, a weathered little gem perched off the coast of Corral Beach, Malibu. A quick and convenient right turn off the PCH, it’s a lighthouse for road-tripping families and sunburned surfers chasing their next ride.

You flip the fryer around your wrist with a practised flourish, “On it!” You call back, before you dip the metal back in the bubbling oil, the familiar sizzle of golden fries accompanying the bustle of the late afternoon rush. The kitchen smells of salt and grease and the faint tang of fresh-caught fish, a scent so familiar it clings to your skin like a second layer.

Claire breezes past with lazy grace, bumping her hip against yours. “Heading to the surf after?” she asks, her grin as wide as the beach outside, like her mouth was made for holding sweet oranges on hot summer days. She’s balancing a seafood basket in one hand and a plate of fries in the other, weaving through the bustle with the ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times before.

“How’s the forecast looking?” You ask back instead, tossing the crispy fries into a basket lined with deli paper. 

“High tide in twenty,” Claire winks over her shoulder at you, side-stepping a counter corner like it’s second nature. “It’s gonna be perfect.”

You can’t deny that does sound perfect. After a shift as long as the one you’ve worked today, a surf might be all you need to feel alive again. You look back up at the foggy old clock on the wall—ten minutes left, five if you can sweet-talk your manager. You end up counting the minutes in your head, that familiar itch to feel the sand under your feet and the sun on your skin insatiable. 

By the time the clock hits four, you’re halfway out the door, ready to trade the smell of fried seafood for the briny tang of the ocean instead. Claire is hot on your heels, boards tucked under both your arms as she chases you across the tar road that burns under your bare feet, down the splintering boardwalk, and onto the powdered-sugar sands of Corral Beach.

The sun has already dipped far past it’s zenith, and the world feels washed in gold. Golden rays stretch out across shimmering waters, painting streaks of honey over the horizon, the heat settling into a balmy hum that sticks to your skin in a way you can only love.

You follow the shaded path of sycamore trees until the beach opens up to surfer’s paradise—a long stretch of sand, waves that swell and crash, aching to be carved into by hungry surfers. The path curves past a weathered wooden bulletin board, been there as long as you can remember, and you think it might be older than Bunny’s, if that’s even possible. 

“Wait!” Claire stops in her tracks, and you are helpless but to comply. Your eyes stay glued longingly to the beach while Claire’s squint at the array of flyers pinned up—some faded, some fresh. There’s a yoga class, a missing dog poster, and the usual surf report stapled to the corner, its ink smudged from damp fingers. But her eyes zero in on something bright and bold and new. 

“Here we go.” She plucks a flyer off the board, turning it toward you like she’s struck gold. The words Corral Beach Annual Surf Comp are printed in big, blocky letters, accompanied by a grainy photo of a surfer carving into a wave.

“Oh, no,” you groan, already shaking your head.

“Oh, yes,” Claire says, a grin spreading across her face.

Claire’s been singing the same song since you were fifteen and cutting through waves better than most kids your age here on Corral Beach. That you should be out there winning trophies and medals and 10k cheques instead of cleaning out the back of the greasy old fryer’s in Bunny’s. 

“C’mon, you have to do it!” She bugs on, waving the flyer around like some magic wand. 

You laugh, ducking under her arm as she tries to push it into your face. “Claire, come on.”

“I’m serious!” she insists, jogging to catch up with you as you head toward the water. “You’re out here every day. You’ve got the moves, the skill—everything they’re looking for.”

It’s not like you haven’t thought about it. You’ve been surfing since before you could walk. You’d grown up right here on Corral Beach, knew these waves better than yourself. You’d watched your parents chase waves like it was their religion���Bali, Costa Rica, Australia, it was their entire life. Something they loved that was inevitable for you to love too. 

“I’m just not the competition type,” you shrug, gaze drifting out to the waves curling in the distance. It’s not that you don’t want to—well, okay, maybe it is. The idea of standing out there, under the scrutiny of judges, crowds, and strangers, feels about as foreign as the first time you stepped onto a board. Surfing, to you, is about as religious as it is to your parents. An outlet, an art form, the ocean calms your restless soul when you need it most. Putting a score to something like that just doesn’t feel right.

“You’re one of the best surfers out here.” Claire presses, she does it so effortlessly. Poking and prodding, always enough but never so much as to push you over the edge. “Half the people in those comps are just there for a shot at a new wetsuit.”

You meet Claire’s gaze, hesitate, the memory of your dad paddling out at dawn or your mom teaching you how to duck dive flickering in your mind. “It’s not about that. My parents taught me how to surf before they taught me how to say mom and dad. They’d enter comps now and then, but it was never about winning. It was about the waves, the adventure.”

“And you don’t think that’s in you too?” Claire asks, raising an eyebrow as she shields her eyes against the sun.

“Maybe it is,” you say finally. “But that’s their story, not mine.”

Claire’s gaze softens for all of a second before she snorts, shoving your shoulder with her own. “You’re so full of it. You’ve got more talent in your pinky than most people out there. Just think about it, okay? It could be fun.”

You do nothing of the sort.

The second your feet are in the water, you forget all about the comp, all about your job and any other worries on your mind. Salt water seems to have that sort of effect on you. Wasting no time, both you and Claire paddle past the surf, straddling your boards in the ocean, watching as the other surfers before you take off one by one with each new wave that rolls in.

It doesn't take long before the first wave in a gorgeous set comes in, Claire’s all but primed for it. She takes off, gets into position, and pops up on her board, carving into it like it’s breathing. You follow suit as the next one comes in, and just like that, you fall into the rhythm of the ocean.

Wave after wave, you don’t stop until the sun is cotton candy pink, purple, gold. Most of the other surfers have dispersed by now, and Claire’s traded shredding the bigger waves for wading through the calm waters with her back pressed against the flat of her board. 

You, on the other hand, feel like fate is decidedly on your side. You watch as another set rolls in, the first crashing just out of reach. It peels exactly as you’d hoped, slowly to the right, so when the next one rolls in right after, you paddle with it, catch the feeling of the tide underneath you, and like it's simply second nature, get to your feet.

This is where you feel most alive. There is not a second to spare for the other noise in your head, not about the past nor the future nor anything in between other than right here and now. Nothing but the instinctual insistence of how much longer can you stay on? How much longer can you keep your balance? Lean left, right, forward. Better, longer, more, more, more.

And when you’ve finally completed your balancing act, you dance up to the nose, hovering there on the tip of your board, arms out to steady yourself like sails catching wind, and then you close your eyes and let the crash of the wave topple you off.

It’s only once you’ve resurfaced, board nowhere to be seen, that you realise you didn’t feel the familiar tug of the leash around your ankle. By the time you drag yourself to shore, breath heavy and hair clinging to your face, you see it—the measly cord trailing behind you, frayed and snapped clean.

You huff a sigh, not surprised. It had been old crap for a while now. So had the board, but it carried enough summers in its scars to mean something. A history you weren’t quite ready to part with.

Claire’s already gathering her things by the time you meet her on the sand, shaking out her towel and tossing it into her worn tote bag.

“What happened to your board?” she asks, her tone casual, but her raised brow suggests she’s caught the fraying leash.

You lift your ankle and let the cord dangle, the sad state of it all the explanation she needs.

She winces, offering you a sympathetic smile. “Ouch. Guess it’s finally time for a new one?”

It’s only when you’re halfway up the beach that you spot it again. Your board? Your board!

It’s leaning lazily against the base of a lifeguard tower, looking as though it had simply wandered off and decided to wait for you all this while. Relief blooms in your chest, and you call to Claire that you’ll catch up.

It’s only when you’re closer that you notice him.

He’s standing by the lifeguard tower, a red rescue can slung casually over his shoulder. Blonde hair catches the light, tousled and damp like he’s been in the water himself. His broad shoulders are framed by the white-and-red uniform shirt that looks a little too crisp for someone who spends their day in the sun.

You can tell he’s new. There’s a hesitation in the way he stands, like he’s trying to look comfortable in a place he hasn’t quite claimed yet. But there’s something magnetic about him, the way he surveys the beach with quiet curiosity, like he’s soaking in every detail.

And you don’t mean to stare, but you’re caught in the moment, the way he looks like he belongs there despite it all, carved from the same sun and salt as the beach itself.

You’re still staring when his eyes meet yours.

They’re blue, impossibly so, the kind of blue that reminds you of the water when it’s so clear you can see straight to the bottom, the kind of blue you could fall into and forget how to breathe. His mouth quirks into a smile—easy, natural, like he’s been doing it all his life.

For a heartbeat, the world shifts, tilts ever so slightly, like the two of you are caught in some half-remembered dream. Something stirs in your chest, familiar yet unnameable, like déjà vu soaked in sunlight. You freeze, caught like a fish on a line, just before his eyes crinkle at the corners, and he lifts a hand in a casual wave.

“Hey,” he calls out, his voice carries over the sound of the waves, warm and low, and you think there’s a hint of the coast in it—just not this one.

You blink, salt-sticky and sun-drunk, realizing belatedly that you’re still rooted to the spot. “Hey,” you manage, shifting your weight on your feet.

He doesn’t move, but his attention is all yours now, quiet and steady, as though nothing else on the beach exists, like you’re the most interesting thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

“Nice ride out there,” he says, nodding toward the water, his voice dipped in easy admiration. “That last wave—you made it look easy.”

A laugh bubbles out of you, unplanned but genuine, a flush to your cheeks at the notion of being watched and noticed. You hope he mistakes it for sunburn. “Easy? You sure you weren’t watching someone else?”

“Nope,” he says, the smile widening just a fraction. “Definitely you. The board gave it away.” He says, nodding towards the board that’s still propped against the lifeguard tower like a loyal dog.

“Ah,” you say, realising. “So it was you.”

He shrugs, sweet and boyish in his sincerity. “Figured it deserved better than drifting out to sea.”

You glance down at your battered shortboard, the paint long faded from years of sun and surf. The edges are chipped, and the wax is uneven, but it feels like a part of you. “Thanks,” you say, meaning it. “Guess I owe you one.”

And before you can really think it through, the words escape you all at once. “You surf?”

“Not like that,” he hums, tilting his head toward the waves. Not like you. “Still trying to figure out how to make it look as easy.”

“That’s how it starts,” you say, a grin pulling at your lips despite yourself. “You’ll get there.”

He shrugs, a bit sheepish. “We’ll see. I’m mostly here for this,” he hefts the rescue can with a crooked smile. “Started lifeguard training last week. Figured I’d better get to know the locals.”

“Locals, huh?” You arch a brow, a subtle quirk to your lips. “And I’m one of those?”

“Definitely,” he grins, his voice sure now, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“Like this is where you belong.”

The words hang in the air, sweet and sticky like the heat of the day. For a moment, you don’t know what to say.

“Well,” you manage, recovering with a nod toward the tower. “Welcome to Corral Beach. Try not to let it chew you up and spit you out.”

He laughs then, and it’s warm, golden—like sunlight filtering through the trees. “I’ll do my best.”

He steps back, making space for you to collect your board, though his gaze lingers, like he’s reluctant to go but knows he should. 

“See you around?” he asks, the question carrying a hopeful edge.

“Maybe,” you say, the word feeling light and easy as you turn toward the parking lot.

You don’t look back, but you feel his eyes linger, and it leaves a quiet sort of thrill in your chest, like the first rush of catching a wave.

likes n reblogs r very much appreciated <3

[asoftepiloguemylove]

TO BE LOVED IS TO TURN AROUND

Portrait de la jeune fille en feu Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019) dir. Céline Sciamma // 呪術廻戦 Jujutsu Kaisen (2018-) cr. Gege Akutami // Hozier Talk

[smokbeast]

”Bento”

#inktobertale2024 Day 8

[fille--de--joies]

The horizon keeps whispering

Promises of a rising

that would gild the frame

of this forsaken window.

✒️ & 📷 F. J.

[inkskinned]

"it's so embarrassing you like that popular thing" "oh ew that geeky/strange thing is so cringe lol" "oh it's kind of weird you get excited about that harmless shit"

dude i love how ironic and jaded you are and that's so cool and sexy of you. and i am so so glad to tell you - you won!! we all had a meeting and we decided that you won, and we are writing your name on the inside of a burger king crown. the marker smeared, sorry, but we knew any form of real effort is ugly to you. but anyway. congrats! you are officially the coolest, most ironic, most jaded person in-the-world-right-now. we would throw you a party but you would think it was totally boring - and besides, we're weird so we wouldn't have been coming. we would have brought our love of beetles and of baking and of little canapes. we would have brought our artsy videogames and pages of writing. we would have written a poem with you, our hands covered in ink, and spread out a canvas to dance on, the night so lurid and pink.

but do not worry. we will not throw the party. we will just get you a ringlight and that crown i mentioned. it is a nice crown, except for where one of us dropped it.

the vote was a really hard one because we had so many cool ironic people to pick off the shelves. all of you have hands that rot fruit, how strange is that - you can't look at something without destroying it for other people. you like it when you can squeeze a person into a pinpoint - all us small ones scampering our little feet around our ugly joys. the vote was also a hard one because we kept our voices down because you don't like it when we talk too loud. you were on your phone at the time, talking to people other than us. you are a ghoul of every moment - half in, half out, you resent us for being here without shame or embarrassment.

so good news! we have invented an island for people like you. you get to go there and speak into the air things like if you still like watching harmless twitch streamers in 2023 you're fucking boring. you will say things like liveplay podcasts are fucking ugly and it's kind of awkward they try to make everything gay. on the island we made you, all of your words will have weight. they will form in the air like icicles, large white behemoth letters that will crumple in anvils around your feet. maybe we will send someone there once in a while to sweep, but honestly you might be there for a while, alone, waiting. we are busy being outside looking for mushrooms and flapping our hands and humming. we are busy kicking our little heels while we watch cringey tv. we are busy - sorry! as an apology, we have pre-filled the island with every bland, mediocre, unscented thing we could find. the island has the texture of american cheese. the island has an ocean that never gets angry. the island is perfect for you, trust me. you will be so happy there - as happy as you can be, ironically.

we want to say we are sorry for doing harmless things that you find annoying, childish, or unappealing - but we are not sorry. we thought we could help you, because we don't mind laughing at ourselves, but it turns out you are allergic to color and noise and atmosphere, so this is the best that we can do for now. we are all making a big shirt that says i voted in the ironic monarchy. we got you one that is just a fast fashion buttondown. i am so excited for you and this island and the big life you have won. you have a cool jaded grey life and miles of irony to roam. i love you! be well.

now leave us alone.

[2057]

[sleepnoises]

my personal favorite pens and pencils

sakura pigma micron 08, 0.5mm — uniform line, waterproof, quick drying, medium juicy, dark ink, good for writing addresses on letters and messages on the backs of business cards in packages

sakura pigma professional brush pen, fine — precise yet springy tiny pointy tip, waterproof ink. good for drawing and for writing names on letters fancily. lifts a little when erased over alas but everything else is good

gold pilot metropolitan fountain pen, fine, converter installed / clear pilot kakuno, fine, brass kaweco clip installed — cheap precise fountain pens that i keep banging around in travel or letting dry out and they are A-OK. nice for fancy-feeling list making or journaling. fun for drawing but don't let your sketchbook get wet. I can't remember what ink I have in the metropolitan but the kakuno has green cartridges

pentel energel infree 0.5mm turquoise — just a pleasantly juicy gel pen

pentel twist-erase pencil 0.5mm — vintage style and big ol' replacable eraser. hard to break

pilot color eno erasable mechanical pencil in sky blue — just fun to have as an undersketch option

pentel vistage water brush, fine — mvp. ride or die. if you're doing a watercolor painting on location that's about five by five inches this is your girl

[bogkeep]

deep sea creature commission for @yonah952 !

[orange-artblog]

I was inspired (i‘ve seen this meme around so much before as well x) / the original

inspired (? it‘s literally just zudio) by @zu-is-here‘s studio au >:3

dream, neil & night by jokublog, zu sona by zu (obv), epic by yugogeer, cross by jakei95, ink by myebi, killer by rahafwabas and swap by p0pcornpr1nce (?)

[sylvanitchi]

ink doodles

[fille--de--joies]

Asymmetry

There is a slight imbalance, my sweet addiction—you see, you've become my essential opium while I am, at best, the delectable yet cumbersome presence you relish but don't intend to retain.

There is a slight disproportion in the way you proliferate inside my mind while I'm the bare tenacious sparkle of a flickering star struggling in the shrouded sky of your impervious cloudy nights.

✒️ F. J.

[fernflowerss]

When you make it out of the trenches, move on to new fandoms and still occasionally reblog a fanart

But then on a quiet october sunday tommyinnit and jack appear at your doorstep with The Grief

[randomthunk]

Morven is cool and all, but have you thought about how Robin, despite being possessed by an evil sorceress who hates him and commits unspeakable acts while piloting his body, maintains his good nature and own bravery in face of all the horrors?